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Mad about the boy

It was once a popular belief (maybe it still is) that men reach their sexual peak at 18 while women don’t reach that pinnacle until they are 35. This would suggest that to have a really explosive sex life, we ladies need a toy boy.

Having once been in a long-term relationship with someone six years younger than me, I have touched on this concept, but not gone far enough, I reckon. And I have been pondering the benefits of a young stallion. Recent nude pictures of Harry Styles (Google him, fogies) have further piqued my appetite.

The young male form is one of true beauty – long sinewy bodies, the hint of a little muscle (I am not seeking out a gym bunny covered in lots of firm lumpy bits), still-soft facial hair, pert little bottoms, a slight hint of androgyny. Germaine Greer is not everyone’s cup of tea, but in her 2003 book, The Boy, she celebrates this concept and was accused of acting inappropriately for fawning over teenage youths. But she was just enjoying their flawless, passing loveliness.

Don’t get me wrong – I am not seeking to corrupt the next dreamy sixth-former I spot at the bus stop (well, only if he willingly comes home with me!). But in a previous job, I used to have to visit a local secondary school and talk to its star rugby or football players about their achievements. Much of what they said was beyond my limited sports knowledge, but I was nearly always in awe of their flawless faces, broadening shoulders and their general ‘in bloom’ vibe. Each one was teetering on the brink of manhood. In some ways they were already beautiful young men, but in others, they were still boys. I would struggle to stop myself just gazing open mouthed at some of them – particularly the young rugby players – my inner conscience shouting at me to get a grip.

The trouble is that life is full of missed opportunities or moments we never enjoy until the present becomes the past. When I was at an age when young (say 18-25-year-old) men would even look at me, i.e. when I was 18-25 myself, it was never that great. But now, when I would be viewed by such men as a middle-aged sack of potatoes, I fantasise about these smooth-skinned, ripe little berries.

Aside from their jaw-dropping beauty, I also imagine a wide-eyed bouncy young pup would be eager to please in the bedroom, that he would not be too arrogant to be shown a thing or two. And, best of all, he would have marathon-runner stamina.

But, readers, I know my limits, that I am no Angelina Jolie, so these thoughts are merely floating fancies. A young stud is not coming anywhere near a middle-aged mum like myself, unless it was for a bet or to cross an item of his sexual ‘things to try before I die’ list (probably somewhere between water sports and doing it on a bus).

But if I look over my shoulder when a handsome youth walks past, smile at him, and he smiles back, it will be enough to give me a warm glow for the rest of the day.